A House Full Of Noise
by Alwyn Elderberry
Summary: Noah always wanted a house full of noise...
1. Luke: The Sequel

AUTHOR's NOTE: Hi! Thanks for dropping by! I just wanted to preface the story by saying that it exists as a "crop rotation" exercise for my story "Brothers Halliwell" (the story whence the original characters I use for Luke and Noah's kids originated) which is my main priority. I'm hoping that there will be material that comes out of this story that I can use in the other. I figured since they're totally different story sets (Charmed vs. As The World Turns), it wouldn't be too terrible an exercise. However, I am committed to writing this story as its own separate entity, if it turns out that people should happen to enjoy it. I just wanted to be upfront about all this if per chance some one should stumble across my other story; there's a good reason the _**occasional**_ line of dialogue might sound familiar. =-)

Hope you have fun!

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**Luke: The Sequel**

Warmth.

Of all Noah's qualities, it was his warmth, according to his boys, that went the furthest in defining him. And his voice. He could speak with a strength as soft as cotton, and even at its gentlest there was a snug, woolen certainty in his deep, settled baritone. Certain, but not stuck, it conveyed a will both firm and flexible, and even his sternest of scoldings, though rare, carried with them the promise of an olive branch, even at the end of a very, _very_ long day.

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There was a knock at the door. "Dylan?" said Noah. "It's Pop, can I come in?"

_(Uh-oh),_ Dylan thought, _(he's using his 'sensitive new age dad' voice)._ "Uh… I'm in a meeting."

"Ah," said Noah, "So how about taking a break?"

"The forecast said rain; don't you have an ark to build?"

He heard Noah's muffled chuckle through the door. "It's on my 'to-do' list, right after picking your Dad up from Jedi training." said Noah. "So… can I come in?"

_(Crap!)_ "Well, ya know what they say: There's no time like the present!"

"Mm-hmm… but did _they_ get a call from their kid's headmaster?"

_(Crap, crap, crap!)_ "Anything's possible."

"_Dylan_." Noah spoke just sternly enough to make known that this part of the game had come to an end. Soon followed the sound of a thirteen year-old boy plopping onto his bed, complete with deflated sigh over a symphony of springs.

"Fine," Dylan said, though not impolitely, "come on in."

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Meet Derelyn Perseus Snyder. Not even kidding. His true name and his most closely guarded secret, as was his birth certificate: the only real proof the name existed. Noah had suggested the name Derek, and while Luke liked the name, he felt it wasn't quite unique enough for the young man he intuitively sensed Dylan would become. So, he proposed the name of Roland, but already having a Rory and a Rowan (fraternal twins) in the family, Noah thought it would be one 'Ro' too many. So by the grace of sleep deprivation, they settled on the quasi-combination of Derelyn, but were calling him 'Dylan' before he was even a day old.

Anyone from a large family can tell you that when you're one of many children, you'll find a way, intentionally or otherwise, to carve out your own niche, be it a series of accomplishments unique (within your family) to yourself, or a trait that helps define you specifically and (hopefully) differentiates you from your siblings. You can certainly share this trait with your siblings; you would just happen to be that particular trait's specialist.

Dylan was known for... well... his mouth. Possessing a decidedly sarcastic sense of humor, he was someone you most wanted in your corner in a battle of wits, due to his talent for acutely spotting an argument's weakness, zeroing in on it, and crumbling it to the ground (you could practically hear the thud). None of this is to say he was manipulative; he was truthful to a fault, and the first to call fowl when something smelled fishy. Even so, he was hardly the sort to lie in wait with ears perked, eager to pounce at the first sign of insincerity. Though initially intimidating, he was enormously open-minded and compassionate regarding people's insecurities, though his own were scarcely detectible.

His motto: "I have no tolerance for intolerance."

"That boy is a little spitfire" his Grandma Lily would say with equal parts exhaustion and affection. "A pistol" was Grandpa Holden's word for him. Luke and Noah had a love-hate relationship with these descriptions because, while Dylan wore his feisty spirit as his strongest virtue, there was so much more to him than boldness. To be sure, his mind was a force of nature, emphasis on "force", but like all of the boys, he was genuinely courteous and respectful – his parents were big on manners; politeness was second nature to him – and his please's and thank-you's were always full, except when they weren't, in which case he would want you to know. Luke saw in him both Noah's sense of responsibility and his propensity for sarcasm. Noah saw in him Luke's… well… He basically saw Luke: The Sequel. A fair comparison, but incomplete. Where Luke had battled self-destruction, Dylan merely had yet to learn just where to draw the proverbial line. He was not a win-at-any-cost young man. That, he had gotten from Noah.

The visuals: Dylan was a little on the short side for his generation – 5'5" – but he was the tallest person Noah had ever known, even taller than his own husband, whose willfulness had set the bar skyscraper high. He had smooth, medium-length hair, whose color no one could agree on – usually cinnamon in any man-made light, but the shyest kiss of sun drew out the most striking cranberry-colored hues. His skin was creamy with faint reddish brown freckles, the kind found only when being looked for. His eyes – whose rich brown was deep enough to hide his pupils – were roofed by thick eagle-sharp eyebrows, one of them with a thin horizontal scar through its middle. His legs were slightly bowed, making his boot-cut jeans appear more belled than they actually were.

A handsome little devil, in a neo-hippie meets modern poet sort of way.

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Noah made a point to close the door gently.

"Dad's not home?" Dylan asked. "Because I was all prepared for you guys to double team me."

Noah must've stifled a chuckle, from the subtle single bounce of his shoulders. "No, he's home. He and Lee are in the kitchen getting ready for tonight."

"Okay, see, here's the thing: I get that Lee's a culinary prodigy and all, but do you really think that letting a nine-year-old work with boiling liquids is..."

"Actually," said Noah, to cut short his son's stalling. "I've got _him_ keeping an eye on your Dad."

Dylan lowered an eyebrow. "So then Dad doesn't know about..." He made a paddling gesture with his open palm. "...You know?"

Noah was more intruiged than curious when he asked, "What makes you think that?"

"The distinct lack of screeching comes to mind," Dylan said. "After what happened today, I'd think he would be in full-on Diva mode."

Noah's eyes were weary from the long day, but kind. He said nothing else about it. Instead, he suggested, "How about scooting over?"

After a brief delay, more for effect than from genuine hesitation, Dylan walked his elbows to one side of the bed, his knees following suit, making space for his Papa to lie down next to him.

"So…" said Noah, also propping up on his elbows. "Where do we start?"

Dylan shrugged. "Julie Andrews is a big fan of the very beginning."

"Oh really."

"Apparently, it's a very good place."

"Is that so?" Noah bobbed his head. "And how do you know who Julie Andrews is anyway?" He eyed his boy with harmless suspicion. "Have you been messing up my DVD collection again?"

"Oh please. I'm the son of two gay guys. If I didn't have a rudimentary knowledge of musicals then Child Protective Services would come and take me away," Dylan said. "And by the by, it's never been proven that it was I who raided your DVD collection, so according to the Family Constitution, I'm…"

"Innocent until proven guilty. Yeah, yeah, yeah," Noah said and nudged the boy's shoulder with his own. Then, he waited, with a decidedly unassuming expression on his face, knowing that his son was no fan of shared silences. It took the young man two deep, slow breaths and the biting off of a stray sliver of fingernail he'd been gnawing at all day, before he could no longer tolerate the quiet.

"So…" Dylan hung his head, though not heavily, "Go ahead; let me have it. I'm sure I deserve it…"

"Son, do you really think I came up here to yell at you?" It wasn't a question.

"Of course not, but I really wish you would. It'd make you feel better. It'd _definitely_ make me feel better. Plus, just think of all the money you'd save not spending it on Maalox."

Noah felt one side of his mouth attempting to grin. "I'm pretty sure I don't have a stomach ulcer."

"Not _yet_, maybe."

"Hmm, well, maybe you're right." Over the years, Noah had nearly perfected that tricky balance of authority, humor, and sensitivity, making the necessary adjustments depending on which son he was dealing with. "But I was wondering if I could get your advice on something."

Dylan said to himself, "Oh, here we go…"

"You see, I've got this friend who has a problem, and I'm not sure what to tell him, and since you're such a good problem solver, I was wondering if you might have any ideas."

Dylan sighed. "Okay, lay it on me."

"Well, he's a friend from college and one of their son's, we'll call him… 'Shmylan'."

"Oh yeah? Ya mean Shmuke and Shmoah's kid?"

"Oh so you've met him?"

"Yeah well, you know, I've seen him around."

"He's supposed to be a pretty cool kid."

"I'm nursin' a man crush as we speak."

"Really? That cool, huh?"

"Aw yeah." Dylan could be such a little stinker sometimes.

"Well according to his parents, this kid has a tendency to start arguments with his teachers…"

"I prefer 'differences of opinion'."

Noah sent him a knowing look. "You say potato."

The boy sighed in frustration. "So the whole 'Silence Is Acceptance' thing is just a good bumper sticker?"

Noah sighed as well, more swiftly than sharply, thought for a beat, then said, "Here's a thought. Why don't you just tell me how many years you're planning to take off my life and I'll see if I can't help you along. Maybe speed up the process a little?"

Dylan rolled his eyes. "Ha ha."

"I could eat more red meat. Maybe take up smoking?"

"Look, Pop, I get it."

"Just a ball park figure. We can work out the details later."

"You can stop now."

"Ten years? Twenty years? I can even get started tonight."

Dylan groaned. "All right, alright. I get it," he said. "But what I don't get is how you can raise me to speak up for myself but then get pissed off when I do."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Noah. "First of all, watch the language, and second: Dylan, nobody's asking you not to speak your mind. We're just trying to get you to see that charging head-first into battle isn't always the best way to get your point across."

"It's not like I'm calling them bad teachers or something – if they've got any sense at all, they should know that already," Dylan said. "And it's not just about voicing my opinion; Pop, they're breaking the rules."

"All of 'em?" Noah asked sincerely. "I mean, when you look at your track record..."

"So I don't look good on paper. A lot of people don't. Remember your…" – he used air quotes – "friend from college?" Dylan asked. "Check out his headline:" He cleared his throat. "'Gay college student manipulates girlfriend out of attending dream school so he can remain in the closet and play with the hangers'."

Noah scrunched his eyebrows. "How did…?" He stopped. "Who told you that?"

"Pop, we all figured out a long time ago that all of your stories that begin with your 'friend' from college are about you or Dad or both."

"Clever little bunch, aren't you," said Noah. "So what gave me away?"

"Well, seeing as how he's got top billing in all your stories, we figured that if he was such a good friend, we would've met him by now," Dylan said, "but the fact that his boyfriend's name was 'Duke' is what finally cinched it for us."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the writer in the family."

Dylan patted his father's back. "And admitting it is the first step to recovery."

"And we're not talking about me."

Dylan snapped his fingers. "Darn it. Thought I had you."

Noah went down the list of educational casualties: "Last year it was Mrs. Valzania…"

"That was civil disobedience and I stand by it."

"And Mrs. Brown..."

"You cannot outlaw the semi-colon; it's not right!"

"And this year Mr. Carver…"

"Eve's forbidden fruit was a red delicious apple? Please!"

"And Mister Dosset."

"Abstinence Only' is _not_ sex education! Plus, he didn't even mention homosexuality. Think of all the poor gay kids runnin' around not knowin' what goes where."

"For the record..." Noah touched his forehead to his son's. "You're too young for anything to go anywhere with _anyone_," he said, and put the comfortable distance back between their faces.

"Yeah, but what happens when those kids grow up and wanna go 'camping on Brokeback?' They're not gonna know what tools to bring or what to do with 'em."

Noah suddenly felt the need to conserve his breath. "And now it's Mister Tory."

"Intelligent Design' is neither intelligent nor a design. The man is paid to teach; not preach!"

"Mm-hm." Noah exhaled, slowly, very slowly. This was probably going to take longer than he expected.

"And not only that, if they're gonna include 'Intelligent Design' in our so-called science classes, then on balance shouldn't they cover the principles of Scientology as well..."

"Ya think?"

"At least skim it."

"Uh-huh..."

"Seriously, I think the whole "thetans" thing is just as believable as a talking snake who talked some naked chick into eating a quince and duping her idiot boyfriend into eating it – and why the heck would God care? It's not like he was eating it."

Noah massaged his eyebrows. "I thought it was an apple."

"Funny. So does my alleged science teacher," Dylan said, "and the worst part is that Intelligent Design isn't even in the text book. He made photocopies from some antediluvian book he had at home…"

_("I **told** Luke that word-a-day calendar was gonna come back to bite us.")_

"Not only is it unapproved curriculum, it's completely inappropriate! I oughta turn him in for copyright violation. And if I find out that Kinko's had a hand in helping him, then I'm takin' them down too."

"Okay, okay," said Noah, patting him on the arm. "Why don't we deal with Junior High School first, and _then_ we can take on corporate America."

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

"Dylan?" Luke said. "It's Dad. Can I come in?"

Dylan leaned his head on Noah's shoulder. "You'll protect me... right?"

Noah grinned. He couldn't help himself.


	2. The Biker Boy Badass

AUTHOR's NOTE: So sorry I've been so long in getting this up. If people still seem to be enjoying it, I promise to have the next chapter up no later than Tuesday. Thanks for droppin' by! Oh! And when last we left our heroes, Noah was having a chat with his and Luke's 13 year-old son, Dylan, regarding a "difference of opinion" he had in the middle of class with one of his teachers. The last chapter ended with a knock from Luke on his bedroom door.

**The Biker Boy Badass**

Luke stood with folded arms in the open door, his foot anxiously tapping like a runaway metronome.

Noah looked at his watch. _(Well, he did last ten minutes longer than I thought he would)_ "Uh, Honey?" he said, and looked at his hubby's tapping foot, "I think you've got us confused with the casting directors for _Bambi: The Musical_" – He looked up – "Not that you wouldn't make a great Thumper." He deferred to Dylan. "What do you think?"

"Hmm? Who, me? Oh, sure!" Dylan agreed. "I'd say Dad's got a very bright future in… in uh… th-thumping."

With a strong final thump, Luke brought his tapping to a halt. "Do you know what _your son_ just did?"

"What's that, Dear?"

"That little booger just kicked me outta the kitchen," Luke said. "I made one tiny little mistake and the little iron chef handed me my walking papers!"

Noah stroked his chin. "Hmmm. I'm trying to get an image of the Baby Bear kicking anyone out of anywhere and…" He shrugged. "Sorry, Darlin', it's not comin' to me."

Luke swayed his head swiftly from side to side. "Yeah well, to be fair he did start with 'Daddy, you know I love you, right?' before he confiscated my spatula."

The thought tickled Noah's insides. "Man, you really are a sucker for that line."

Luke said lightly, "You know, I am, I really am." Then his eyes sped, past Dylan, to settle on nothing in particular in a corner of the room.

_(He won't even look at me)_ Dylan thought_ (Man, this is so gonna suck)_

"Do you need me to go down and keep an eye on him?" asked Noah, but by reflex, Dylan clamped both of his hands onto his Papa's arm, anchoring him in place.

"No, he's okay," Luke said, pretending not to notice. "Chris is studying at the kitchen table, so I just handed him the fire extinguisher and told them both to go with God." He offered a small, intimate smile to his companion. "But thank you."

"So…" Dylan said. "Dinner's in God's hands now?"

Luke didn't look at him. "Yeah. His and Rachael Ray's long lost grandson's."

"Well, Honey, did you give Lee a good reason to send you packing?"

Luke hiked his shoulders to his ears. "You tell me," he said. "According to him I strangled the strawberry sauce. Apparently my spoonful of sugar made the strawberries go down."

Noah gave a small wince. "And not 'in the most delightful way', I'm guessing."

Dylan said, "Apparently it's Julie Andrews night here at Snyder Manor." But when Luke again didn't react, Dylan patted his fist like a microphone. "Uh, is this thing on?"

Then Noah, as subtly as he was able, cocked his head in Dylan's direction. _(Not me, Honey, look at the boy. I'm not the one who's in trouble here) _his eyes said _(…I hope)_

_(But what if I'm too harsh?)_

_(Well, you're gonna have to say something sooner or later)_

_(God, I knew I shouldn't have come up here…)_

"Ya know what?" Dylan said, getting up off of the bed. "You two and your psychic shorthand look like you could use a moment alone, so I'm just gonna…"

Luke pointed at the bed. "Park it, Perseus," he said.

_(Houston, we have liftoff!)_ Noah thought, giving a wink of encouragement to his parent in crime.

Dylan groaned – "Aw maaaan" – and plopped back down next to Noah. "So was this the idea all along?" he asked his Pop. "You soften me up, then send in the maternal muscle?"

"Yes, young Snyder," said Noah, and twiddled his invisible mustache. "And once again you've fallen right into my evil trap."

Dylan scrunched his eyebrows. "I think somebody needs to cut back on his black and white movie intake."

"I hope he can fix it," Luke asked, shifting his attention awkwardly back onto Noah.

"It'll be fine," Dylan said, "nobody can resuscitate a strawberry like Lee-Lee."

_('Atta boy, Dyl) _Noah thought _(Get in there and show him how it's done)_

* * *

There's a saying: Often the most difficult opinion for a person to tolerate is the one that they used to hold. Considering that Dylan's character was being fashioned according to the same blueprints as Luke's – or at least, remarkably similar ones – one understands how Luke could have less patience for Dylan's growing pains, as they were pains he himself had grown out of and, even as an adult, had to realign himself from time to time to avoid reverting to some old behavior. But knowing this, where Dylan was concerned, Luke would catch himself early on into his screeching sessions and would (wisely) defer to Noah to handle. Dylan didn't suffer for this, as Luke was far _far _more than a mere disciplinarian, but for the busy body hand-in-every-pie maternal figure that Luke was, it ate at his insides to not be involved in every aspect of his raising. Interesting, seeing as how he had far less trouble splitting or sharing parental duties with Noah when it came to the other boys.

* * *

"Well, I _hope_ he can salvage it," Luke said, braving eye contact. "I _just _lost my reputation as the Bun Burner. Now suddenly I'm the Strawberry Strangler."

"The Strawberry Strangler?" Dylan echoed. "Well, it's not quite the 'Boston Strangler' but it still has a nice ring to it."

Luke smiled somewhat. "No fruit dare walk the streets of Oakdale with me on the loose."

"Beg pardon, Ma." Two grease-loving hands gripped Luke's shoulders from behind and gave them a good squeeze, a tall, ruggedly handsome, scruffy-faced sixteen year-old young man appeared behind him. "But the gay community, of which both my folks are card carryin' members, finds the term 'fruit' a might bit offensive. Plus…" He stepped to Luke's side, keeping one arm around his shoulders "When you tack on that stranglin' bit, you're lookin' at the business end of a hate crime."

"Don't worry, Honey," said Noah, "_I'll_ wait for you."

Luke bunched his lips together on the side of his face. "Mm-hmm," he said, "and just to recap, Dear, the idea was for us to rub off on the kids, not the other way around."

Noah shrugged. "Hey, I'm only human."

Luke gasped playfully. "_Tell _me you guys heard that!"

Shane folded his arms, his cocky grin fixed in place. "So he finally admits it," he said, and leaned against the doorframe. "Looks like we've finally worn the old man down."

"Enjoy it while it lasts, Wild Man" said Noah, "I'm expecting a comeback any minute now."

Shane gave a nod to the challenge. "Lookin' forward to it."

* * *

Introducing Shannon Percival Snyder, but those accustomed to walking upright had best call him 'Shane'. The closest thing in the family to a traditional badass, Shane had carved his image as a biker long before he was old enough to drive a motorcycle, with his black leather jacket, black biker boots, and whichever of Noah's old plaid shirts caught his eye that day.

A strong, stubborn Capricorn, weeks away from his seventeenth birthday, Shane had already achieved his full adult height of six-foot-one, and his scruffy facial hair – finally long enough to be considered an actual beard – suggested a maturity which had strangers guessing he came nearer the top of the family role call than he did. His hair was short and spiked, the color of apple pie crust, with his beard a few shades darker and minus the golden tones.

Whereas Luke had vibrant hazel eyes that would rush to greet you, and Noah's eyes were a distant blue-grey that would draw you in, Shane had vibrant blue-grey eyes that would rush to greet you, then draw you in. More accurately, they would rush to greet you, kidnap you, and never let you go. And if you're like most of the girls in his class (and some of the guys), you wouldn't mind a bit.

Speaking of kidnapping, Shane had played the villain in all the school plays. Each year, the black hat got bigger and the black cape grew longer but the role remained the same: that of the devilishly handsome schemer with a wicked laugh and a cocky grin, for Shane was indeed a lover of mischief, but only of the teasing variety, teasing being his most comfortable means of showing affection. This chiding streak was the canvas upon which the finer details of his personality were painted, but he took fierce offense to the mistreatment of others, particularly those he deemed weaker than himself (translation: everyone). It was for this reason that his brothers were the least bullied kids on the playground. It was either 'Hands off the Snyder boys!' or 'So what color would like for your cast?'

Of all the sons' paths, Shane's was arguably the longest, due mostly to a trauma he survived at the tender age of six. I'll spare you the specifics for now, except to say that as a result, he suffered from dysthymia: a chronic, 'low grade' form of depression, which was the driving force behind his quick temperedness and his somewhat frequent displays of aggression. However, such outbursts were generally mild (never physically harmful) and tended to leave as quickly as they came.

He was also quite the intellectual, a trait he downplayed by manner and appearance. As a child he read everything he could get his hands on, from books to encyclopedias to the backs of shampoo bottles. He was also incredibly gifted with his hands. By his twelfth year, he had taken apart every electronic device and appliance in his or his grandparents' houses. The vast majority of his attempts to reconstruct said machines were great successes, though Noah had long ago given up hope of his camcorder returning to the land of the living. "Oh well," he said one day to Luke. "What's one dead video camera if it means we have our very own resident handyman?" And handy he was. Sinks drained, ovens baked, TVs blipped, engines purred, and refrigerators hummed at the magical touch of his calloused finger, as though the machines themselves had told him what ached and how to fix it.

* * *

"Look, Ma," Shane said, "I know what you're thinking and don't you worry: I'm gonna talk to the guys and we're gonna petition the state to change those prison suits from felon orange to something more your color. We can't have you lookin' less than fabulous, bars or no bars."

"Excuse me? I look just fine in orange, thank you." Due to lack of response, Luke looked at his husband. "Jump in any time, Babe."

"So that jaundiced look?" Dylan heard himself say. "That's on purpose?" But when Luke's jaw dropped, he speedily added, "So… a-a-are those new highlights? Man, are they pretty. No, really. It's like the Sun shining right outta your…"

"Look, kiddo," Luke said, finally ready to square off with his child, "until you're out of the doghouse, maybe you oughta keep your clever little quips to a minimum. What d'ya think?"

Dylan squinted, as if expecting to be pied in the face. "So I _am_ in the doghouse."

"Don't worry, Sweetheart," Luke said, "I've already told the postman to forward your mail." He turned to Shane. "And as for you," he said. "Did you actually need something or is it just time for my pestering session?"

"Ooh, gonna have to take a rain check on the pestering," Shane said, "I actually just had a question for Pop."

"State your business, boy" said Noah, "Your mother's got lectures to give and kids to punish."

Dylan glanced sideways at Noah. "You know, you _could _enjoy this a little bit less."

"Hush, your brother's got the floor," said Noah, then looked at Shane. "What d'ya need?"

"Well, I was wondering if you could gimme a hand switching out the tables. We're gonna need the big one in the kitchen tonight."

Noah looked up as he pondered. "Uh... yeah. Gimme about… fifteen minutes."

Luke held out his hand to Shane. "Hi there! My name's _Liver_, but my friends call me '_Chopped'_"

Shane looked at the hand then back at Luke, clicked his cheek and said, "Sorry, Ma. This is man's work."

Luke smiled and scoffed both at once. "You know, I _am_ the athlete here."

"Sure ya are, Ma." Shane patted Luke's shoulder. "Sure ya are."

"And why do you need the big table anyway?" Luke spoke as if he were bating the boy. Something that Shane noted.

"Because Anna's comin' to dinner and the kitchen table only seats twelve comfortably and fourteen uncomfortably," Shane said, followed by a burst of excitement on his face. "Hey, that reminds me: Can Anna come to dinner?"

As if Luke hadn't seen that coming... "Gee, I dunno," he said, reveling in the maternal power of the moment. "It's kind of short notice, isn't it?"

"Hey, better late than never, right?"

"Oh, I don't know, Sweetie, tonight was just supposed to be the family."

Shane looked to Noah. "Pop, could you please talk to your wife?"

"Hey, this is between you and your mother."

Luke looked at his husband. "Babe, please don't encourage him."

"But Honey, all the progressive parenting books say that we should."

Luke sighed. "Note to self:" he said, "burn all the progressive parenting books."

"Ma, come on," Shane said, "You ask Anna to stay for dinner all the time. Plus, she's already planning on coming."

Luke pretended consideration. "I don't know, Sweetheart, did you ask the boss?"

"Are you kiddin' me?" Shane said. "There's two industrial sized ovens full of food down there right now. Hell, we could feed the whole Snyder Clan."

Noah quietly grumbled, "Ten thousand dollars for a damn oven, it better be full of _something_."

"Oh now, Honey…"

"I know, I know, he had to outgrow his _Easybake Oven _sooner or later."

It's true, Lee did tend to over-do it when he got excited, and having sensed the importance Luke seemed to be placing on this particular dinner, Lee had been treating it like a countdown party to a rocket launch.

Luke smiled at his husband. "Have I ever told you how cute your grumpy old man moments are?"

Noah winked. "And I don't look a day over twenty-six."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Shane rushed, "You're a couple o' saplings. God bless Mary Kay. But can we get back to…"

"Forty-five dollars for a bottle of damn moisturizer," said Noah. "I _better_ not look my age."

Two fingers between his teeth, Shane blew a shrill whistle. "People. If you'd just answer the question you two can go back to playing beauty parlor and I can go pick up my girl." He looked Luke. "Come on, Ma. Please?"

Luke took his time in answering. "One condition:" he said, and paused to further milk the moment. "Take the station wagon."

"Take it where? Crazy Tony's used car lot?"

"To pick up your girlfriend, wise guy."

"But I got her her own helmet and everything! My chick is totally street legal."

Luke pinched Shane's cheek. "Awww, who taught you how to sweet talk like that?"

Shane casually took the hand away. "You know what I mean."

"Look, Sweetheart, any other day it would be fine, but if you take your motorcycle you'll get dust all over your pants."

Shane brushed his thighs. "But I'm just wearing my jeans."

Luke gleefully threw his son's words back at him. "Hey that reminds me!" he said. "Change into some pants before you go."

"But…"

"Shannon," Luke said, with the first sign of a foot dropping, "you are not gonna let Anna straddle a motorcycle while she's in a dress."

"Fine, I'll just take Eastwood."

"She's not gonna straddle your _horse _either."

"Look. No offence, Mother, but what my girlfriend does and doesn't straddle is between me and…" Shane screeched to a halt. "Whoa, hold the homophone. How did you know she's wearing a dress tonight?"

Luke's lips spread in a cheeky grin. "Because she called and asked what she should wear because she didn't trust her big blonde beau's sartorial judgment."

"Wha-…" Shane stammered. "So you knew she was comin'?"

"Mm-hmm."

"This whole time."

"Yyyep."

"And this whole song and dance has been…"

"Hey, you're not the only one who knows how to pester, Cowboy."

Noah raised his hand. "I can vouch for that."

"Pffft!" Shane shook his head. "So how long you two hens been cluckin' behind my back?"

Luke chuckled as he spoke. "Oh simmer down" he said. "Besides, she called _me_. Not to mention the fact that she is actually on the guest list... How bout a little grattitude?"

"But I'm gonna look so lame pickin' my girlfriend up in the grocery grabber?"

"No lamer than you'll look serving everybody's food in the frilly pink apron if you keep it up."

Shane froze, then squinted. "You wouldn't."

Luke squinted back. "Try me."

Shane squinted harder. "You're bluffin'."

Luke squinted harder. "Don't – you – wish."

"Careful, tough guy," said Noah. "He's been dying for an excuse to show Anna your baby photos."

"Aw yes!" Dylan said. "That fifth grade haircut alone is worth at least a thousand words."

Shane shot Dylan a playfully threatening look, then fixed his attention back onto his male mother. Propping his fists up onto his hips and he said, "Blackmailing your own kid? Lady, you oughta be ashamed of yourself."

"Sweetheart, when you raise nine boys through puberty, we can talk. Until then, I'll use whatever I've got."

"Here, here." said Noah, though it sounded like surrender.

Shane took a heavy step toward Luke. "In that case, I've just got one thing to say to you."

Luke saw the young man's step and raised him another. "And what might that be?"

"Where…" Shane took another step "…are…" and touched their noses together "…the car keys?"

Luke's squashed laugh erupted in his nose. "That's my baby boy," he teased, and took the keys from his pocket and put them in his son's hand. "Don't forget. Change pants before you go."

"Fine, but you are aware we're not the friggin' Kennedys I'm guessin'."

"Could you walk while you whine, please?" Luke said.

"Hey, this ain't whinin'. This is some serious man moaning here."

"Then take it for a walk, tough guy," Luke said. "You shouldn't keep a lady waiting."

Shane opened his mouth to tease that if anyone would know, Luke should, but… "Don't…" Luke stopped the lips with his finger "…say it!"

It was then that the oldest son stuck his head in through the doorway.

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A.N. - Okay, again, if this is still a story people care to continue, I'll be sure and have the next chapter up just as soon asI can. Thanks for readin' and I hope y'all had a little fun.


	3. Deleted Scene: Puberty In Oakdale

Author's Note: Hi folks. The third 'official' chapter is still in the works but I'm still pluggin' away at it. Just some tweaking that needs to happen to make the dialogue flow more naturally, but I felt badly because I told people I'd have something up by Tuesday, which unfortunately I wasn't able to do. So, I figured, just for fun, I'd post something. If the story were on a dvd, this chapter would be considered an "Easter Egg" or a hidden scene that one has to find somewhere on the menus. Hopefully there's some fun to be had in the works.

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**Puberty in Oakdale**

"Dad!"

"No, no. Tris. It's okay!" Shane said.

"Okay? I'm having recurring auditory hallucinations. How on Earth can it be okay?"

"Because I hear them too!"

Tristan stared at his brother in awe. "You heard the strings too?"

"Yyyep."

"And the piano earlier?"

"Uh-huh."

Tris looked around. "But where _were_ they?"

There was a casual ease in Shane's shrug. "Nobody knows."

"But why's this happening to me?"

"That's just puberty in Oakdale."

"Well then I don't mind tellin' ya that I don't like it."

"Aw, it just takes some getting used to."

"But I feel like I'm losing my marbles."

"No. No, you're not," Shane said, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "This has happened to all of us. We helped Dylan through it last year, this year it's your turn and in a few years we'll all help Lee through it too."

Tristan gave himself a moment to run those words through his mind on a loop, until his dust had settled. "Do Dad and Pop hear the music?"

"I _think_ they do," Shane said, "but it's best you don't press 'em on it. Sven asked about it once and they took him to a shrink."

"And they don't think it's weird?"

"Apparently not."

"But... _Why_?"

"Because it would never occur to them to wonder if it was weird or not," Shane explained. "Just like you didn't think it was weird yesterday."

Tristan's eyes widened. "The music was there yesterday?"

Shane smiled. "Sure was."

"Why couldn't I _hear_ it?"

"It's not that you couldn't hear it, it's that you _didn't_ hear it, just like Mom and Pop don't hear it." Tristan began massaging his temples. "I'm sooo confused."

Shane leaned forward in his chair, propped his elbows on his knees. "Just think about this for a second: What does Pop do for a job?"

_(Is this a trick question)_ Tristan wondered. "He's a critically acclaimed movie director and he teaches a film class."

"Have you ever seen his classroom?"

"Yes…"

"Hah!" Shane snapped his fingers and pointed. "See how natural it felt to say that?"

Tristan appeared strangely absent from his own body when he said, "Uh-huh."

"Right. That's what'cha call an Oakdale reflex. You answered 'yes' automatically, because you're _supposed_ to have been there, but now stop and think about it. Have you _actually_ ever been there."

"N-n-no." Tristan's eyes grew wider this time. "Oh God! My whole life is a lie!"

"No, no, no, Buddy. That's not the point at all. It's sorta like…" Shane scratched an itch behind his ear. "…like things people just accept as truth even though there's no reason to think that."

"Like what?"

"Like, uh…" Shane quietly clicked his tongue as he pondered. "Like you know how when it comes to romance, people say 'there's someone for everyone.'."

"Uh-huh."

"Heard it all your life, right?"

Tristan shrugged. "I guess so."

"But is it actually true?"

"Shane, please don't take this as a criticism because I don't mean it that way, but..." Tristan his behind a sigh as he paused for thought. "I'm twelve years old. Girls _just_ stopped being yucky six months ago so I think the question is a little over my head..."

In that moment, Shane understood why Noah just couldn't resist tussling Tristan's hair. "You're right, you're right. My bad," he said, "but just think about it for a second. If there really is someone for everyone then there's a hell of a lot more lesbians on the planet than we've been lead to believe because fifty-one percent of the human population is female and that's even with all the female infanticide happenin' in China."

"O-kay," said Tristan as he processed.

"But what about 'opposites attract'?"

It took a second to register; so many new thoughts flying by, picking out any single one was like catching a fish with your bare hands. "Hmm? Oh! Uh..." Tristan's eyes attempted to cross of their own volition, but he wrangled them back into place. "I guess I buy that."

"Yet birds of a feather flock together."

"Oh boy," Tristan sighed, gripping his forehead. "Headache."

"But do you really have a problem accepting both of those to be true?"

"Well... no…" said Tristan. "At least, I don't _think_ I do."

"Well eventually, the Oakdale reflex is exactly the same way. You accept it as the truth, even when it's not, and you don't feel the need to prove otherwise."

"I see," said Tristan, "I think - But does this little adjustment happen anytime soon? Cause I'm a brand new kinda scared at the moment."

"Sooner than you think. And just tell one of us if it's freakin' you out a little. We _all _know what that feels like, and I can promise you, nobody's gonna think the less of you for it."

Tristan was a worrier even when the world made sense to him; now there was a whole knew set of rules to find room for in his mind. _(This may take awhile)_ he thought. "So this is life from now on?"

Shane leaned back in his chair. "Well, not always."

"Ouch. _Big _headache. _Huge_."

It takes someone unique as Shane to make chuckles seem sympathetic, but in that moment, they did. "It get's easier."

"Promise?"

Shane nodded, as if renewed of purpose. "Now le'me ask you this:" he said, as if setting up a gameshow question. "Did Pop break up with Aunt Maddie to be with Mom?"

"Yes."

"That's the way it's gone down in history?"

"I... _think _so."

"But is that what really happened?"

"Well, yeah" Tristan jiggled his head "I mean... _no_." He then plastered his palms onto his cheeks. "Oh God! It's like _The Matrix _on a farm!""

"No, no. See. Same deal."

"But that would mean Pop lied to us," said a distressed Tristan. "That doesn't make any sense. He'll take half an hour explaining why some of us get to stay up later than others but he lies to us about how he and Dad got together?" Intuitive by nature, Tristan asked, "Why? Is he ashamed?"

Touchy subject. "Well… yes, but only if Ma calls him on it. Then Ma gets all bitchy and Pop pouts and broods which is why it's best you not mention it."

"But…"

"And don't worry, 'kay?" he said, with his own special style of tender affection. "Pop would never lie to you. Mom either. You can take that one to the bank. If ever there were two people obsessed with honesty…"

"Even though he told me something that's not true?"

Shane had this part of the speech prepared; he'd recited it twice before. "Do you know how to get to Pop's office?"

"Yes.. I mean… No." Tristan squished his eyes closed. "Darn it."

"See? You _didn't_ just lie to me," Shane assured him. "Something somewhere changed the truth and the truth changed in your mind but in order to lie to me you would've had to know you were doing it."

"Shane, this is really nice of you, but I'm starting to get a little exhausted."

Shane let the comment pass. "And you say that Pop told you about Aunt Maddie?"

"Right."

"But can you remember him telling you?"

"Um… No."

"Can you remember _anyone_ telling you?"

"Actually, I can't." Tristan's frowns often resembled the smallest, most vulnerable pouts. "So then why do I think it?"

"That's just Oakdale. Nobody knows. It's like somebody somewhere keeps rewriting history and we all just accept it as the truth," Shane said. "See, you're so used to saying yes that you do it automatically, even if it's not technically the way it all went down."

Tristan asked what seemed the obvious solution: "So then why don't we all leave Oakdale?"

"Because Oakdale's like that angry chick from _The Grudge_. Once you've experienced it, you're screwed. It follows you everywhere."

Tristan scrunched his nose. "That lady's freaky."

Shane clicked one cheek, the one he flexed when he smiled. "So is Oakdale."

Tristan bobbed his head. "Good point."

"But this is the really important part:" Shane again leaned forward in his chair. "You'll only be aware of any of this stuff on 'Nuke' days. And since tomorrow, it's not a 'Nuke' day, you'll forget that you ever were aware of what we're talkin' about right now."

"Wait, what's a Nuke day?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure. At least, I don't know why they happen. But they usually happen either once or twice a week, unless life really sucks at the moment and then it's pretty much every damn day," Shane told him. "You'll just start to notice things… Like the way every Monday through Friday CBS goes blank for an hour at two o'clock, except for the commercials?" Reading Tristan's face, he knew it was time for a little reassurance. "Here's the good news," he said. "Nuke days can only happen on Monday through Friday, so we get every weekend off. No exceptions."

Tristan's eyes had glazed over by the images that flew through his mind's eye like a video as it fast forwarded, making mental notes of the things he would be paying closer attention to.

"And here's something that has me scratchin' my head every time," Shane went on. "Ya know how Ma sometimes does one of his little sappy Hallmark confession speeches?"

Tristan smiled at the thought. "Mm-hmm."

"And somewhere in the middle he'll turn his back to Pop but still keep talking to him."

"Right."

"And then when Ma stops speaking, Pop takes a few steps forward? Maybe puts a hand on his shoulder?"

"Uh-huh."

"And then Ma will turn his head but only _slightly_ and keep talking to him."

Tristan then realised where this was going: "…instead of turning all the way around! Oh my Gosh! That's so weird! Why doesn't Dad just turn all the way around?"

Shane shrugged. "Nobody knows."

"Are there any other places like this?"

"Well… I know there's some place called Springfield where weird stuff happens but we can't ever go there."

"Why not?"

"Because we can't ever leave Oakdale unless we're kidnapped or running after somebody. Except New York because it's in walking distance."

"But we live in Illinois."

"Right."

"So if we live in Illinois, how can New York be in walking distance?"

"Nobody knows," Shane said. "Mostly because nobody's supposed to know."

"So other than New York, we're trapped?"

Shane tried a slightly different tactic. "Have you ever been to Chicago?"

A moment's thought. "No."

"Does it feel like you have?"

And the heavens opened up. "Yes."

"Now if you told me you'd been to Chicago would it feel like you were lying?"

"No. Not at all."

"So in the end, you don't feel trapped, do you?"

Fascinating. "I… guess not," said Tristan, "but I _do _feel like I'm trapped in _The Truman Show_."

Shane grinned. Tristan was never hard to knock down, just hard to keep down.

"And here's another thing…"

"Oh Gosh, there's more?"

"Don't worry; we're about to drive her on home," Shane replied. "Now then... When's your birthday?"

"April 28th."

"What year?"

"2022."

"What year is it now?"

"2029."

"So technically if you subtract 2022 from 2029 you should get the age you are now, right?"

Tristan felt his forehead tighten."Right."

"What is 2029 minus 2022?"

The realisation spread like slow dawn over Tristan's face, and he finally said in a voice just above a whisper, "Seven."

"But how old are you?"

"Twelve," Tristan gasped in horror. "Oh – my – Gosh! Where did my life go?"

"But see, it works both ways," Shane kept on. "How old is Pop?"

"Just turned 40 this past October."

"But how old does he look."

"Um… Late twenties? No older than 30."

"Now _should _that be possible?"

"Well if it is, then that stuff Dad makes him put on his face is a lot more powerful than I thought."

Suddenly a look of excitement sparked on Shane's face. "Oh! Okay, ya hear how the piano just started?"

Tristan turned his head slowly to one side, then slowly to the other. Where could that silly piano be? "Seriously, that's just good old-fashioned wrong," he said. "and more than a little creepy."

Shane waved it off. "It won't be tomorrow, unless Ma or Pop do something really stupid and they need another Nuke day this week to fix it."

Tristan's worries were gradually becoming excited curiosities. "Really?"

"Actually, technically it will seem strange tomorrow, but only because I told you that it would when the strings started in. Never, never, never make promises to anyone when the strings are playing. Ma and Pop do it all the time and the whole world turns to crap about two weeks later, and stays that way until the 'Nuke' days die down. Then they'll be disgustingly happy almost every damn day and they'll say all this lovey-dovey crap like everything's perfect and how lucky they are to have found each other and for some reason they'll think it's all gonna be smooth sailing from here on in. It bugs the livin' Hell outta me but, hey, that's life on a 'Nuke Day'."

"So… I always thought we were a happy family."

"Oh, we are. On non-Nuke days this family kicks serious ass, and actually I'd say about half the 'Nuke' days are pretty damn good themselves. Especially the days called obligatory Nuke days."

Just when Tristan thought things couldn't possibly get more complicated: "Oh no. There's more than one kind of Nuke day?"

"Yeah, but just the two kinds."

"What's the other kind called?"

"They're called 'Front Burner' Nuke days."

Shane couldn't help but grin when Tristan replied, "That sounds dangerous."

"Nah, not so much," Shane said. "But remember this: never say anything supportive or encouraging while the strings or the piano are playing, because any promise you make will most likely be broken anywhere from a week to six months after you make it. It's especially important to remember to never promise anybody you'll always keep them safe or be there for them if there's any music playing. Any music at all. Because that either puts them under a bus, or gets 'em kidnapped, or shot, or paralyzed – only from the waist down though, or gives 'em amnesia, or all of the above."

And just like that, Tristan's headache was back. "What about what you're telling me now?"

"Oh nah, that's fine. This is all exposition of fact. They're usually pretty safe during musical interludes," Shane said. "And here's just a little fun fact: When you get tied up, even if the ropes are limp as wet noodles, they'll still hold you in place. And somehow a tiny strip of duct tape is all it takes to take your mouth shut. I mean it's like it was practically super glued your mouth together. Doesn't make a bit of sense; even a weakling could just move their jaw and peel the tape off, but..."

Tristan's posture straightened of its own accord. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"Oh I am."

"What?" Concern saturated every pore of Tristan's skin. "You were kidnapped?"

Shane chuckled a little. "Sure. Happens to all of us sooner or later."

"Oh, now I'm scared."

"And if the music weren't playing right now I'd promise you that you'd never be killed because that would bring the ratings down. Kids can die in the womb but once they're out, they're pretty safe."

Oh dear. More termenology. "What are ratings?"

It had never occurred to Shane to wonder. "Uh… Ya know? I'm not even sure. But higher ratings are better than lower ratings and kids getting permanently damaged drives the ratings down. If the child of a power couple gets killed the ratings go way _way_ down, so if the music weren't playing, I'd tell you…"

"…that you promise you'd never let anything happen to me and I would always end up safe."

"Bingo! See?"

"Wow, I think I'm getting the hang of…"

"Uhn! Uhn! Uhn!"

"Oh right!… the strings." Tristan heaved a dramatic sigh. "In that case, I'm never gonna get the hang of this."

Shane smiled. "Atta boy!"

"But what's a power couple?"

"Uhhh, they're basically soulmates who spend half their time pissed off at each other but say they're happy as clams."

"Really? Why?"

Shane shrugged.

"Right," said Tristan. "Oakdale."

"And there's a reason we're all different but in very specific ways," Shane said. "See, I'm the biker boy bad-ass with a heart of gold. Now, how can you tell?"

"Let's see…" Tristan tapped his chin as he looked Shane over. "Well, obviously the black leather jacket and the black biker boots," he said. "Then there's the scruffy beard…"

"Right."

"And you've got that kinda cocky, rugged, but affectionate grin thing going for ya."

"Good. Good. What else?"

"Um… Your hair's cut kind of short and spikey."

"Uh-huh. Anything else?"

"Uh… You wear your black shades no matter how cloudy it is outside..."

"Right," Shane said, with a hint of pride in his voice. "Now what keeps me from being a total cliché?"

"Uh… Probably the fact that you're always reading classical fiction novels, especially Charles Dicken's because bad guys in his books are brought down by their own devices and that's your favorite form of poetic justice… There's also your lactose intolerance… and you wear Harvard tee-shirts and sweatshirt under Pop's plaid shirts because one day you're gonna…"

"Whoooah, whoat, put the breaks on, Andretti."

Tristan's eyes flashed wide. "Oh sorry! The Strings."

"Right." Shane forced a relieved exhale. "So is that it?"

"Well… You always kiss Dad on the cheek and call him 'Ma'," said Tristan, sounding less certain. "That's not very biker boy, especially on account of him being a man and all."

"No, you're probably right."

"So…" Tristan looked away for a moment, then asked, "So what am I?"

"A-ha! See, you're the shy little worrier with a nurturing personality who's always so busy worrying about how everybody else is doing that you forget to stop and think about yourself."

"I thought that was Rory."

Shane found himself nodding. "Close! Ya see, Rory's the sensitive, artistic, dreamy, romantic type who doesn't have a logical bone in his body but thinks in abstract hoops and circles and feelings. He's also a big-time nurturer but in a more traditional, almost maternal sort of way. You're too young to remember Grandma Emma, but other than the fact that Ror should never be allowed within fifty feet of a kitchen without supervision – and I'm pretty sure the Oakdale Fire Department would back me up on that – Ma and Pop say he's got her sweet and generous way about him."

"He's not a cliché is he?" Tristan asked hopefully.

Shane shook his head very very slowly but assuredly. "Nnno – no – no, he's not," he said. "He's a level five black belt who fractured the high school quarterback's arm in three different places when the creep got a little handsy behind the bleechers."

"Oh yeah! I guess you don't really see that much in the dreamy romantic type, huh."

"Nope. No, ya don't."

Then Tristan braved the question:

"So am I a cliché?" Shane, quite unintentionally, spoke to his brother as if he were attempting to comfort a very young child. "Well now, let's see. You're a conservative dresser who only wears solid colors but you've got that really, really long copper hair straight out of a damn Pantene commercial. Plus, when everybody else is falling to pieces, that's when you really pull it together."

"But Rory's got long hair too."

"Right, but Rory's hair is black and curly and he wears it like that elf did in Lord of the Rings, and it's an extension of his graceful, sensitive nature whereas you have long hair because people who enjoy supporting others from behind the scenes and prefer to go unnoticed usually don't have long hair, because long hair on a guy draws attention. Plus you usually wear it down unless you're doing chores at Grandma and Grandpa's farm" Shane could've gone on like this for hours; he'd always dreamed of being a teacher, like both of his parents. "It's also pretty unusual for twelve year-olds to be as passionate about gardening as you are. Plus you're a twelve year-old vegetarian by choice. Also pretty rare." Shane's entire manner suddenly became more lively. "Hey! Music stopped."

Tristan's head fell forward. "Oh sweet _lord_, I didn't ever think it was gonna stop."

Shane could sympathize. "Just hang in there; it always does." Then he said what he'd been puttin off. "Last thing" he re-situated himself in his seat. "If both the strings and the piano are playing and it smells like there are roses or scented candles burnin' nearby... You need to get your little fussy, perfectionist ass the Hell away from Ma and Pop's room."

Tristan naively asked, "Really? Why? What'll happen?"

Shane patted his little brother's shoulder. "I'm gonna shield you from that one."

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The Oakdale "phonomena" doesn't actually happen within the confines in the story. The characters don't hear music. I just was having a little fun - and sleep deprivation brings strange scenerios to one's mind. Hope you had at least a little fun with it though!!!


	4. My House, My Home

**Author's Note**: Hiya everyone! And thanks so much to all the kind and patient readers and reviewers! I promise, cross my heart, that I'll have the next chapter up on Friday morning (even if that means giving myself racoon eyes. I know this chapter is somewhat lighter on comedy, but I couldn't talk myself out of not including it. Maybe it gave you a small smile or two. Hope so anyway.

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After that posting of the new chapter on Friday morning (I'm in Tucson, AZ), I feel I owe it to people (still very flattered that they're showing interest) to put some serious work into Brothers Halliwell. The chapters for the end of _Day One_ are nearly complete. All the dialogue is there, just need to fix the narrative and I'm good to go. I promise I'll put all my energy into it. They just put a new Starbucks next to my house so if all else fails... I have a good feeling about it though.

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**My House, My Home: _(Flashback)_**

There's a strange sort of something that happens when love runs true: It hurts to breathe. The mere thought of our loved one, be it passing or meditative, and we are filled with such depth of feeling that it literally hurts to breathe.

It's a peculiar pain, this one. It doesn't burn like the anger that precedes forgiveness, and it doesn't sting like the rejection from those whose acceptance we crave. It's an ache, raw and tender. It swims like a creature from the deep in our bellies, it clings to our lungs like honey to a comb, and it stretches our heart muscle until the organ doubles in size, and when you're truly in love, it does all three at once, just as if had for Luke and Noah countless times. It's a precious sort of ache, one that knows the fabled sweet sorrow, having seen the other side of goodbye.

But most peculiar of all: When this hurt is awake and moving within us, our body tells us to breathe shallowly. As shallowly as possible – to not breathe at all would be preferable, but then we'd have that whole fainting thing to deal with – but rather than heed our body's warning, we go directly against its council: we breathe more deeply. We thicken our lungs with more air than they would willingly allow, all in the name of intensifying this mysterious pain. And to be sure, it is pain.

No wonder love is a mystery.

On the night in question, both loves of Luke's life were present in his eyes, as his husband sat in Grandma Emma's rocking chair (a gift). It was old. Very old. Made from the beloved oak tree in the back yard of the farmhouse, that fell at the hands of lightning in a spring thunderstorm. Harvey Snyder, Emma's late husband, had made it himself. Countless nights Emma had made a ritual of sitting and rocking babies to sleep, both her own children, her children's children, and soon, the first of her many great grandchildren. But now, it was Noah's turn. As he sat, craving parental wisdom, he hoped the chair's antique wood had somehow soaked up the secrets of the family matriarch's maternal magic, and would pass them on, maybe whisper them to him, were he to sit and listen long enough. He wasn't rocking though, nor was his son in his arms, but in his crib, trading sleep for wakefulness and back again. And Noah watched, bare-chested in his boxer shorts, elbows on his knees, leaning forward, endlessly in awe of the rising and falling of the tiny tummy. _Please don't let me screw this up._

Noah had known what it meant to be protective of another human being – he was ferociously protective of Luke – but this child, this defenseless baby boy was his to keep safe. Colonel Mayer would never know he existed. Neither the man nor the remnants of him trapped in Noah's mind would go near him. He'd make sure of it.

* * *

"Now how did I know that I'd find you here," Luke said from the open doorway, stilled by a sight he never dared dream he would see. "I'm starting to think we should've gone with the one bedroom apartment, since you've pretty much moved into the nursery."

Noah's eyes never left his sleeping son. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"With all the sitting in the dark?"

"I think something's wrong." "Yeah, I know. All the sitting in the dark," Luke took his first whispered steps into the room. "What's the matter, my love? Is the magic gone already?"

Noah kept his voice low. "I meant with the baby."

Luke looked at the sleeping bundle. "Hmm. Two eyes, ten fingers, ten toes, three heads. He looks fine to me."

"Luke, I'm serious."

"Then it must be Tuesday."

"He hasn't cried all night."

"I know. It's like we're cursed," Luke was arriving at Noah's side now. "What's got you wound so tight?"

"He should've cried by now."

"Well it's only three o'clock in the morning. Give him time."

"I think he might be autistic." Luke just stood there and looked at his husband for a moment. "Please tell me you're kidding."

Noah finally met Luke's eyes. "Right. Because that would be _so_ funny."

"Our baby sleeps through the night and suddenly he's Rain Man?" Luke shook his head. "That's it, you are grounded from movies until further notice."

"And you think I'm cranky _now_…"

"Noah, what happens if he sleeps through tomorrow night? Are you gonna check his head for three sixes?"

Noah's sigh was understated - nothing new there - and when he spoke, he sounded neither angry nor frustrated; he sounded lost. "Fine."

But nothing made Luke feel more needed than helping his lost boy find his way again. "Look… I'm sorry," he told him, settling into his lover's lap and draping an arm around his shoulder. The bare skin felt so warm. "I'm always asking you what you're feeling and then when you try to tell me, I don't listen." He felt Noah's body loosen beneath him at this admission. "So," Luke said, more breath than voice, "talk to me."

Noah chose which words would best convey his dilemma with minimal embarrassment: "I think our son hates me." But it was still quite embarrassing.

While Luke's impulse was to say "That's crazy", his evolving communication skills, plus the fact that apparently Cymbalta really can help, offered up: "What makes you say that?"

"I've been sitting here for two hours waiting for him to start crying. I figured if he was already crying when I picked him up then I couldn't take it personally."

To this Luke answered back, and without judgment, "You're serious, aren't you."

"Luke, the only time he ever cries is when _I'm_ holding him. When I'm not he's okay. Too okay, like a little pod person."

"Tell that to the stretch marks."

"He's fine when you hold him, when Lily holds him. Holden, Damian, Faith, Natalie, Emma, Casey. It's a good thing we don't have a paperboy or he'd like him better too. Everyone else, he's quiet as a Sunday, but the second someone hands him to me…" Noah' s voice had begun to lose some of its distance. "…and I'm the only one who's changed a diaper in this house for three days in a row because he always waits until I'm holding him to… _you_ know."

"Honey, you're seeing things that just aren't there," Luke said, and silently scolded himself for allowing the listening skills to desert him again. He realigned, then, "I can see how it might seem that way, but there's no reason for him to time his bowel movements according to who holds him."

Noah scoffed. "Well then my timing is pretty crappy," he said. "Literally."

"Or…" Luke laughed quietly. "Maybe he just likes the way you change him," he said. "Don't give me that look. I'm serious. I've seen you work your magic. If there's ever an Olympic diaper changing team then Baby, you are bringin' home the gold."

But Noah's humor was slow to awaken. "No," he said simply. "No, he sees the real Noah. The evil Noah that no one else sees." He had meant it as a joke, and it almost was.

"Babe, getting a little creative in the bedroom hardly constitutes evi-…"

Noah rushed his hand over Luke's mouth. "Luke, what if he's awake? He could hear you."

Luke kissed the hand. Placed it back on his knee. "Well maybe he can," he said, "and if someday he hires the world's greatest hypnotist, he might actually be able to find out what I'm saying, but until then…" He started to stand up.

"Wait… wait where do you think you're going?" Noah pulled him back onto his lap. Held him there. "You're not going anywhere."

Luke could never resist Noah's beckoning. Wouldn't want to. "Look, Honey, I get it," he said, and sailed his fingers through waves of dark hair. "I understand how having a child can bring up your own parent issues. It's the same for me."

"Oh _really_?" said Noah. "Lily workin' the street corners these days? Holden been on any killing sprees? Damian joined the slave-trade movement?"

Like it or not Luke had to admit: the man had a point. "Is that what this is about?"

"Isn't it always?" There was no joy in Noah's chuckle. "When in doubt, choose the Colonel," he said, his eyes once again fixed on the baby. "I just know that one day this little one's gonna look at your mom, your dad, and your father and then he's gonna look at _me_ and wonder where my side of the family is." Noah had made the following decision long ago, but never voiced it: "I don't ever want him to know," he told Luke, part revelation, part demand. "I don't ever want him to know that he's the grandson of a murderer, a kidnapper, and a prostitute." He felt Luke's gaze settled on him, heard him say, "Well, Babe, if _we_ don't tell him then someone else will."

Of course they would. Both of Noah's parents had been high profile fodder for the Oakdale gossip mill, two secrets that would never keep. How had he managed to entertain the possibility of secrecy?

"Noah, listen to me," Luke said, "I promise you that someday, and sooner than you think, you're not gonna have to wonder where you end and the Colonel begins, because, Noah, whatever the reason your father is the way he is… Whatever the reason your mother chose the life she did. _You_ – are not them. And you never could be. And our son's gonna know that, whether you tell him our not, because our son is gonna know you. Not your father."

Noah closed his eyes, rested his heavy head against his lover's chest. "I think I've been kidding myself, thinking I had any business becoming a father. It's too soon. We're too young. The timing's all wrong…"

"Or, maybe…" Luke said, "the timing is perfect."

Noah looked up. "How do you figure?"

"Well, maybe becoming a father is the perfect thing to help you finally make peace with your own."

Noah shut his eyes again, hoping his mind's eye would shut with them. "How many times am I gonna have to make peace with that man?" he asked. "What if I _never_ do?"

"Well I think going into therapy is a step in the right direction. Don't you?"

Noah sighed through his nostrils. "Yeah, but it would've been nice if someone had told me it'd just make everything feel worse before it gets better."

Luke nuzzled his cheek against the top of his love's head. No one would ever guess his hair was so soft. "Would that have made a difference?" he asked. "I mean, would you have still gone if you'd known it would bring up all of this old… stuff?"

"I… I dunno," said Noah, shaking his head "I mean, I know it was the right thing to do, especially for our son's sake – I don't ever want my issues with my own father to get pushed off onto him – but…"

The silence seemed to move about them, giving the quietness a life all its own. "But...?"

Oh to be gifted with words, Noah thought, but of this he was certain: the truth couldn't sleep forever, and he was feeling particularly truthful at the moment. Having Luke on his lap and in his arms made it less terrifying somehow. "Remember when you told me that I was selfish with my feelings, and that I kept pushing you away… and for stupid reasons?"

Luke shook his head, not in denial, but in his own embarrassment. "Noah, you _know_ what I'm like in a fight. I just…"

"No, Luke, you were right," Noah told him, "but not for the reasons you think." He took the first of several respites he would need if he was to make it through all he wished to say; he should have shared these truths with his husband long ago. If only he had known how. "It's like… from the very beginning, you've been this… this _place_ where anyone who needs to can go and stay and rest for as long as they need because… this place, it would never turn anyone away, especially someone who just needed a place to belong. And this place…it's safe, and it's welcoming, and…" He rested again, let warm breath melt his body's stiffness, then braved forward. "I've _been_ to that place, Luke… And it's warm, and it's beautiful, and for me, it's home. And when I'm not there, I'm lost."

_Now… _Noah thought, _Now for the hard part_: "But then there are people like me… people whose doors have been closed and locked for so long that even _they_ don't know what's behind them. And I just feel like… like I'm one of those places. Luke, I have no idea what all's inside me. When I was growing up, anytime something happened that scared me or made me feel something I didn't understand, I pushed it down without even looking at it or trying to understand it. It was the only way I knew how to survive." Survival, Noah thought, seemed such an overrated thing where the love of your life is concerned; to spend all those years building walls you would someday have to learn to take back down again, one brick at a time. "But I'm still doing it. I've done it for so long that I don't even know I'm doing it anymore. I just… I shove everything inside and lock the door… and maybe I don't know what all's in there but with everything that's happened, the people I come from, the people who've hurt me…" He smoothed his thumb in a circle over the back of Luke's hand. "…the people I've hurt… I know that whatever's in me _can't_ be pretty; it's gotta be a big mess. And you say that I'm not letting you in, but the truth is, Luke, I'm not letting _me_ in either, because… I wanna be for you what you've been for me. And I've been so scared to let you all the way in because I know that… that once that door opens, there'll be no closing it… It's gonna be that big, dark, ugly mess, and I've always hoped that I could find a way to fix everything without you having to see it the way it is now, so that I could make it a place I know you'd want to be, and a place you'd want to stay." He tried to meet Luke's eyes, and to his relief, he could. It surprised him how easy, frightening, and natural this moment seemed. "Does that make me a coward?"

Luke brushed the back of his wrist below his eye, letting the tear that trickled down end its journey along the back of his hand. "Ya know, you're really getting' good at that whole words thing." He sniffled to keep his nose from leaking, then cradled Noah's weary head close to his chest. Now it was his turn. "What if I told you that I've already seen more of this place than you think?" he asked, sinking into his husband. "It's like… like I've looked through the windows and peeked through keyholes and, yeah, maybe I can't see _everything_," He kissed Noah's forehead, then rested his cheek where his lips had been "but I can see enough to know I'm still completely, absolutely, totally in love with this place. And you're wrong about it being ugly. Yeah, maybe it needs some cleaning out, but that's only because there's a bunch of stuff that doesn't belong there… stuff that other people left behind… stuff that it's time to give back, because you never should've had to keep it to begin with. But the place itself, it's… it's warm, and it's safe, and it's beautiful… and I want it to be my home _so_ badly, but… I'm willing to wait until the caretaker lets me in. Maybe he could just let me visit every now and then, just for a little while, and maybe later he'll let me stay a little bit longer. And then hopefully one day… he'll give me my own key."

Noah smiled, shyly. "Or maybe he can just leave the door open?" He held the smile a moment, before his face grew smooth and sincere. "Luke, you _have_ that key. You know that. You've always had it, even before I did."

Luke tilted his head. "What do you mean, before _you_ did?"

Noah's deep, slow breath gave rise to the slowest of shrugs. "Why do you think I always ran?"

Luke wondered at this for a moment. "I guess I've never really known _exactly_ what you were so afraid of," he said. "You _couldn't_ be afraid of me; I'm about as intimidating as a butterfly."

"Luke, I ran because you've always had a bigger hold on me than you think." Noah was suddenly taken by the way the moonlight made his lover's fair hair seem silver, before blinking back into the moment "But to open all that up, I mean... Are you sure you know what you're asking?"

Luke the innocence in Noah. The kind of helpless innocence that people have while they're sleeping. "It doesn't scare me," Luke said at last.

Of course it doesn't, Noah thought. When it came to feelings, what did frighten Luke, if anything? "So…" Noah kissed his lover's neck, then asked, somewhat awkwardly, "When can you move in?"

Luke's soft laugh was colored with affection, as was his kiss, which Noah returned with a depth that caught Luke off his guard. The comfort it offered them both gave Noah the courage, when their lips parted, to say, "Promise me something."

Luke smiled. "Anything."

"Just…" Noah sighed. "Just don't let me push you away."

Luke's eyes held Noah's gaze as he slowly shook his head. "Not a chance."

"Luke, you _know_ me. You _know_ I'm gonna try. I won't even know I'm doing it, but…"

"Hey, hey, hey. Look at me," Luke said tenderly. "You have _nothing_ to worry about."

"You sound so sure."

"Well, that's only because I am."

Noah so envied Luke's certainty. "Care to share whatever it is that's giving you this… annoying confidence?"

Luke let out a string of quick, quiet laughs. "Just think of it this way," he said. "You know how I get when I really want something?"

"God, do I ever…"

"Yes or no will do, thank you."

"Sorry."

"The election. Finding Reg's killer. Finding out what Damian was up to when he first came back. Finding you when your father had you…"

"Right."

"All of those things put together," Luke said, "don't even come _close _to how much I want to be with you. To make a life with you. To make a _family_ with you."

The only word Noah's mind could conjure was, "Oh."

"So what it comes down to is this: Which do you think is stronger? How much you wanna push me away? Or how much I wanna keep you close?"

Naturally, no thought needed. "When you put it that way, I guess you're right," said Noah. "I _don't_ have anything to worry about."

There was a stirring sound in the crib; Luke slid quickly but gentlly off of Noah's lap, took the two steps to their newborn. "Heeey there, angel," he said in a voice that danced.

"Oh God, he's awake."

"Relax, Babe, I think you can take him."

"Don't be so sure. A few alligator tears outta this little guy is all it'll take to eat me alive," said Noah. "Luke?" His eyes flashed. "Luke? Honey? Sweetie? Baby? What are you doing?"

"Well…" Luke began, a sly gleam in his eyes, "from what I can tell, the only piece still missing from this puzzle is that _you_ wanna hold your son." Having picked up their child, he leaned forward give him to Noah.

"Luke, I mean it." Noah shot up from the chair, stepped back. "If you hand him to me and he starts to cry I swear I'm gonna start to cry too."

"So cry then. It won't kill you."

"How do you know?" Noah's body tensed, head to toe, as Luke settled their child into his shaking arms. As he feared, the baby made an unsettled sound, the sort that warned that crying wasn't far behind. "Aw God." Noah held him out. "Luke. Here. Take him. He doesn't want me."

But Luke took a quick step back. "Honey, I'm sorry but this is for your own good," he said, and turned on his bare heel to go. "Just remember, babies can smell fear."

"Luke?"

"I'll be back in a few minutes to check on you."

"You're leaving me alone? With the baby?"

Luke said over his shoulder, "Don't worry. He doesn't bite."

"Only 'cause he doesn't have teeth yet."

"That's kinda my point." By now Luke's voice was echoing from the hallway.

"Luke?" Noah's rise in volume elicited a cry from the enfant. "Oh, God, Vlad I'm sorry, baby."

There are moments that help define a life. Moments which, were they points in a connect-the-dots picture, were you to miss them, would wreck the entire image; they're that important. Seldom do we see their significance while they happen. But not so this night. This night, in that moonlit room, Noah knew that the man who walked out of that nursery, assuming he could convince himself to do so, would be changed.

The room itself, a modest twelve-by-fifteen feet in size, felt as large as Carnegie Hall, with Noah alone on the stage, the moon as a spotlight to mock his solitude. The cries from the child in his arms showcased the nursery's resonant acoustics. "Shhhhh…" Noah whispered. "Vlad, please just… What am I doing? What am I not doing? Please, just gimme a sign. Anything." _Maybe motion would help_, he thought, and started to slowly pace. "Vlad, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you but, trust me, you _don't_ want me to start singing." But that didn't stop Noah from coming frightfully close, since the child wasn't leaving him many other options. But before (further) humiliating himself, Noah decided to try having a conversation with the tiny, helpless, but still intimidating little presence in his arms. "Come on, baby, pleeease don't cry." _Okay, Noah, you can do this. Just pull it together. Deep breaths. In and out._ "Okay, Vlad. I don't know what else to do, so… I'm sorry if you're not happy with me, but you know, you really could do a lot worse." _Whoa… Where the hell did that come from?_

This awkward declaration was strangely enough to spark a tingling confidence in the young man, and while marveling that some part of him must believe it – that reaction had come from some place real – he noticed that his son's cries had begun to relax into melodic coos. "Awww…" the new father said, falling further in love. "I swear, if you were any cuter…"

For a long moment, he could bring himself to do no more than watch his child. He had never imagined that another soul could equal Luke in beauty.

"Well, now that I've got you all quiet…" It occurred to Noah that his son probably wouldn't break were he to make a gentle bouncing motion. "I just want you to know that… even though I'm not the expert your daddy is at expressing myself, you have no idea how much I've thought about what it'd be like to have you… about what I'd tell you once you finally got here. I just… I don't think there's any way to tell you how badly I want this… How much I've wanted my chance. I mean… I can't wait to tell you it's okay to cry when you skin your knee… And if I catch you in a lie I'm gonna tell you you did a bad thing but you're still a good person… and I even want my chance to not yell at you when you get a dent in your fender – No crashes though, okay? Just a tiny little dent. That's all I'm asking – But… before you skin your knee, I'm gonna have to help you learn how to walk. And if I'm gonna catch you telling me a tall tale then first I'm gonna have to teach you how to talk. And unless the state of Illinois has a change of heart, it'll be about fifteen years before I can teach you how to drive." A bubble of spit popped on the baby's lips; Noah smiled. "But until I get the chance to do all that… I should probably tell you that, with all the rest of it, I don't have the first clue what I'm doing… I can't promise you I'll be the best father in the world but I can promise you I'm gonna try harder than any father in history every has. So just… Just bear with me, okay? I can be a real idiot when it comes to knowing what other people need from me. Just ask your daddy. But I'm trying. And now that you're here, I'm gonna try even harder." The baby cooed contentedly, wrapped his tiny palm around his Papa's little finger and squeezed. "Ahhh, that's it" Noah said in a whisper. "Something tells me that... you and me? We're gonna get along juuust fine."

Noah sensed Luke's presence in the doorway, but gave nothing away. "So," he said to his son, "Are you gonna be pushy and bossy like your Daddy? Or patient and wise like your Papa?"

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I've had several people ask me (understandably) how the children were born/where they came from. Actually, I figured I would leave that totally up to the reader. I've intentionally used ambiguous wording that would allow someone to interpret the manner of the boys' births in pretty much any way they choose. Some people find the concept of male pregnancy to be romantic. More power to them. If someone wants to believe that Luke gave birth to all of the boys then I completely support that opinion. If people want to believe surrogate mothers were involved or if it was adoption or a combination, then by all means go for it. I do have my own very specific ideas as to how the boys arrived but I would really rather people interpret the situation however they would like. So, hurrah for male pregnancy, hurrah for adoption, and hurrah for surrogate mothers. Anything goes.

Oh! And the oldest son's name is Vladimir (called Vlad for short) and the adult version is to be introduced in the next chapter.

Take care!

Sincerely,  
Alwyn


	5. The BlessedBorn Boy Scout

**The Blessed-Born Boy Scout**

Luke and Noah. Noah and Luke. Alike in values and decency, but in personality, you couldn't have specially ordered them more different. Introvert versus extrovert. Neat freak versus clutter bug. Early bird versus night owl. Boxers versus briefs. Coke versus Pepsi. The list went on.

The name Luciano is Italian in origin, derived from a word meaning "light". The name Noah comes from a Hebrew word meaning "rest, comfort". In a house full of comfort and light, what could possibly go wrong? In a word, lots. But for those who enjoy complications, the fun of life is in the fixing, and with these two master fixers, whatever went wrong never stayed wrong for long.

People who met them as a couple, which was most people, when they later encountered either man without the other he would seem not lacking, yet somehow less than complete, like a star without the night's darkness to define it. The beauty was in the balance. Without Noah to steady him, Luke would work himself into an impassioned frenzy wherein anything resembling reason was nowhere to be found. As for Noah, someone who found fulfillment in taking care of others – and none so much as family – he loved life a lot less without Luke's spark to energize the scene. Add to that Luke's openness and vulnerability and the modern day cavalier Noah was born to be was in a hero's Heaven.

Some would call these two a recipe for dysfunction. Luke and Noah? Not so much, for never before had two lovers – lovers whose devotion had survived years of the universe making playthings of their lives – been more deserving of the freedom to lose himself in the other, without the fear of being lost.

And back to the subject of Heaven. As Belinda Carlisle was kind enough to inform us, Heaven is a place on Earth. What she didn't tell us was that Heaven could travel. In early 2009, Heaven was conveniently located in Noah Mayer's dorm room. (Location, location, location). That is, it was until it moved with them to their first apartment that summer. Heaven with a lease. Then came the first house: Heaven with a mortgage. Then came houses two, three, and four: Heaven, Heaven, Heaven.

Was it perfect? Hell no.

But that's what made it fun.

* * *

As scripts were sold and movies produced, houses grew larger. Their fourth and final house was one that they built. Blending Country Estate, Craftsman Home, Victorian manor, and Storybook Castle, it was something right out of a folktale, created to give a child's imagination room to roam, literally and figuratively. The rooms were larger than necessary (after being bound and gagged in a storage locker by two sadistic kidnappers, the two men shared a dislike of small spaces), with ten-foot ceilings, eight-foot-tall doors, secret passageways the two parents had fun pretending not to know about. There was even a tower: Tristan's Tower it was called – the location of his bedroom on the third floor, with Rory's directly beneath it on the second. The house would've made the Guinness Book of World Records were there a prize for the most fireplaces per square foot under one roof. For Luke, this rounded out the enchantment.

It took Noah a while to develop his paternal stamina, physically speaking. Oh he did just fine, better than fine, while he was awake but due to his overachieving attitude, Luke would often find his beloved husband strung out on the living room sofa as early as eight o'clock, Rory in one arm and Shane in the other as they snoozed on top of him, while Luke himself, ever energized by chaos, busied himself with dotting the day's 'I's and crossing its 'T's as another day crawled to a close. But somewhere around that fifth or sixth year, Noah could make it all the way to the final "I think I can" of the bedtime story before the sound of his own voice lead he and his children off to dreamland.

There was only one child old enough to have clear memories of a tall dark haired man falling asleep next to him, snoring like gravel in a blender beneath a thin, open, hardback book. The oldest child. Vladimir. He had especially clear memories of trying to get the book settled back onto his Papa's face at night, having picked it up to discover what eventually became of the green eggs and ham or if Raggedy Anne would every discover the identity of the cookie snatcher. He couldn't remember why it felt so important to reposition the book back on the bridge of his father's nose; he just remembered that it did. And his memory of the grin on Luke's face when he eased into the room to wake his sleeping husband was every bit as clear, as was the way he would ask Vlad every night "How did he do?" No matter the result, Vlad's answer was always "He did better this time." What he remembered most about this was how important it made him feel; his opinion mattered. Five years old, and what he thought mattered. And if what he thought mattered, then so must he.

* * *

Vladimir is a Russian name meaning "to govern with peace," and while oldest siblings may not necessarily have govern, Vlad's influence was unquestionably a peaceful one, smoothing the somewhat sharper edges of his younger brother, Chris, whom the boys affectionately referred to as Vlad's "co-captain". From Vlad's second nature head-counts to his effortless sibling wrangling (provided that Sven's sugar intake had been closely monitored), to his relaxed whose-turn-is-it diplomacy, he made being the oldest of nine look so easy. And to him, it was.

"Honey, are you trying to get our kid beat up?" Noah joked, after Luke suggested Vladimir for their son's name.

Luke's heart seemed so set on it, and while Noah took no pleasure in crushing his husband's hopes, he just couldn't talk himself into – and he did try – giving their child such a name. Disappointed, Luke agreed to either Christopher or Christian; they would decide when he was born. But at first sight of their newborn, Noah picked the conversation back up exactly where they had left it months before, saying "Okay. But only if we call him Vlad." Luke enthusiastically agreed (Noah slept extremely well that night after Luke's display of gratitude. Extremely well).

And so, Noah (and sons) called him 'Vlad'. Noah just liked the sound of it. It flew just low enough below the Apple/Blanket/Sunday radar to be unique – Vlad was, after all, the son of future moviemakers – without causing psychological damage to the name's owner. Plus, it just seemed to fit, both when Luke would use the complete name – a male mother's prerogative he figured – and when Noah shortened it.

Luke likened his firstborn to everyone's favorite lifeguard: just the knowledge of his presence made the other boys feel safer, emboldened them to take risks they otherwise would not – this was true even of the prouder types – and like any good life guard Vlad, without hesitation, would dive from his proverbial perch at the first sign of trouble to rescue a soul in trouble, or simply to aid in keeping them afloat, should they tire of treading water.

Vlad liked to think of himself as the flippers of a pinball machine, watching his brothers rocket through the gates, bumpers, ramps and targets until at last they rolled down toward him, at which time he would "flip" them back into play, until the next brother came rolling down. All the while, he enjoyed the show.

Though master of his own mind, Vlad wasn't the strongest willed individual. Resisting his innate tendency to be seduced by the path of least resistance was a lifelong struggle for him. Actually, not so much a struggle, more of a journey; Vlad wasn't really the struggling type. He was the antithesis of the 'jack of all trades and master of none'. What Vlad did, he did well. Exceptionally well. That which he did less than well, he simply didn't do. Was he afraid of failure or was it a genuine lack of interest. He himself couldn't even be sure. He was sure, however, that he wanted to be a doctor ever since his parents gave him that blue, toy stethoscope on his fourth birthday. Luke finally gave up trying to get the child to leave the toy at home, which meant everyone in whichever restaurant they happened to be in at the time got the gift of a free examination, whose remedy was always mysteriously located in the salt and pepper shakers.

A bit of a do-gooder boy scout (sound like anyone we know?) by his own admission, Vlad was constantly balancing his heart's two greatest desires: to be the cool big brother his siblings always wished to include, and to be a respectable figure for the others to follow. A self-imposed expectation, that one, as neither Luke nor Noah ever imposed upon him the goal of limiting his humanity by becoming the prototype of a well-behaved boy. Indeed, they made the conscious decision not to do so. At times Luke worried – mothers do that, male or otherwise – that perhaps they had been a little too successful in this endeavor, for though Vlad effortlessly garnered the respect of his siblings, he was not the strongest willed of individuals. That said, he was very much the mild-mannered master of his own mind.

The visuals:

To begin, take Noah, one month and some change from his twenty-first birthday. Subtract between five and ten pounds; Vlad was noticeably thin but not "skinny". Keep Noah's ovular face but slightly lengthen the chin to more resemble Luke's. Also add Luke's festive cheekbones and that jolly nose straight out of Santa's workshop. For his skin, apply Luke's fair, cream-colored complexion but rather than Luke's reddish undertones, use Noah's golden ones.

Now take the fluffy texture of Noah's hair (in its shorter phases) and paint it the color of a candle flame, when looked at through a clear glass jar of honey. Keep Noah's eyes in shape but imagine them two patient swirls of hazel and chestnut.

Dress him in virtually anything in the men's section of a Lands End catalogue and you've got a pretty good visual representation of Vladimir Phenris Snyder.

* * *

"Why so grumpy, Grumpy?" Vlad asked his Shane, who was already propping his elbow on Vlad's shoulder, leaning against him the way one leans against a trusted tree.

"Oh same old," Shane said. "June and Ward here were just tellin' me I gotta wear my Sunday britches to the Barbeque at Twelve Oaks tonight."

"Cut!" said Noah, sitting up to lean back against the headboard. "Let's take it again from the top: Ward has nothing to do with it. This is all my lovely wife's doing."

"Nice united front, Babe," Luke said, now settling down on the bed, next to his husband.

"Honey, we lost the united front six kids ago."

"Whatever you say, babe," Luke's attention went back to Vlad. "And just ignore Grumblepuss here. He doesn't cope well in a wardrobe crisis."

"Okay seriously," Shane said, "I thought we all agreed to stop callin' me that."

"Sayeth the boy who calls me 'Ma'."

"Well let's face it," Shane said. "If, God forbid, women ever become extinct, you're gonna be the first man to lactate."

Noah could stop the sound of laughter fighting to get through his lips. The spit spray that accompanied it? Not so much.

"Thanks. Thanks for that." Luke said.

"Well Luke you've gotta admit," said Noah, "you are quite the nurturer."

"Right. Making me a natural born breast feeder. No I get it. Cute. Very cute."

Noah looked at Dylan, now sitting on the end of his bed. "You might need to save me some room in that doghouse."

Vlad, his cheeks flushed from laughter held-in, looked at Shane for distraction. "So… wardrobe crisis?" he repeated, entertained. "Could I get some subtitles on that one?"

"Hoooold it. Time out." Noah had waited, almost patiently, for his oldest to bring up a certain topic. Wait over. "Vlad, you're killing me here."

"Ditto," Luke said. "How'd the exam go?"

Vlad shrugged an apology. "They hadn't posted the scores yet when I left. I stayed as late as I could without leaving Rory stranded at Java."

Noah gave him his crooked grin, with eyes that suspected his leg was being pulled. "Don't _think_ I won't take you over my knee young man."

Vlad laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "Pop, I swear, the second I hear, you'll be the first person I tell."

"Mm-hmm," Noah replied. "See that you do."

"So?" Luke said. "How do you think you did?" Everything about him: lively eyes, raised brow, excited voice, they more than suggested he expected good news was on the tip of Vlad's tongue, and it's true: Vlad aced it. He knew he did; he just wasn't the bragging type. "I guess I feel pretty good about it."

"He aced it," said Noah to his husband.

Vlad shrugged again. "I _hope_ so."

"Know so," said Noah. "Remember, _I_ was the guy with the flash cards."

Vlad's eyes suddenly widened. "Oh, no," he said. "I was so nervous about the exam I think I completely forgot to thank you."

Actually, it was a very un-Vlad-like maneuver, forgetting to express gratitude, but a kind nod from Noah said he already knew he was appreciated. "You don't have to thank me."

"Still," said Vlad, "I doubt there are many pre-med students out there whose "Papas" tossed aside their latest Hollywood movie to be their son's study-buddy."

Noah shrugged. "Well, too bad for them then."

"Plus, you did _him_ the favor," Luke said. "Trust me."

Noah bumped Luke's shoulder. "Hey, do _you_ know where the amygdule is?" he asked. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

Luke bumped back. "Oh so you're qualified to perform brain surgery now?" he countered. "Yeah, I didn't think so." Then he leaned forward to whisper a secret, only without the actual whispering. "And I'll bet it won't be the last time mister director here gives you a helping hand in the study department."

This won a curious look from Vlad, and a suspicious look from Noah.

"He bought index cards today," Luke told the boys. "In _bulk_."

Noah eyed the object of his affection. "Does _nothing _get by you?"

Dylan gasped. "Were they colored?" he asked, followed by Vlad. "Oh_ please_ tell me they were colored!"

"Aw God," groaned Noah.

Luke nodded with glee. "Five assorted colors," he said. "All neon."

"Wha-…Bu-…" Noah stammered. "It was all they had."

Shane chuckled. "Aw yeah, Papa Bear. Out 'n' proud!" He looked at his brothers. "Fellas, sing it wit' me one time wouldja please…"

But before they could…

"Boys." Luke cut in. "First one to sing YMCA is getting sold at rock-bottom prices."

Dylan thought a moment. "Exactly how rock bottom we talkin' here?"

Shane followed: "Yeah, we talkin' blowout sale, everything-must-go kinda prices?"

Then Vlad: "Or is it an ebay best-offer-wins kinda thing?"

Noah folded his arms and grinned. "If all they've got are magic beans, we're takin' em."

The boys all inhaled their winces.

* * *

Part 2 of this chapter (it ended up getting so much longer than I intended) will be up asap. But I hope there's still some fun to be had here. And to those kind reviewers, I promise I will respond to you!!! Promise promise promise. I so appreciate the feedback, ideas, and such.

Sincerely,

Alwyn


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